


If only in my dreams

by Anuna



Series: the inhumans 'verse [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas fic, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Team Bus - Freeform, five times fic, part of a series, personal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 06:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13208067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: Five times plus one Skye celebrates Christmas. Or doesn't.





	If only in my dreams

_One._

 

The glittery, ridiculously pink headband is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. She tires to imagine it on her hair and thinks pink would look really nice on deep brown. And besides she'd look pretty – she still didn't get over having her hair cut. (because she doesn't want to let it be combed properly. Because her foster mom pulls too hard, but Mary is not allowed to say that.)

“Did you girls see anything you liked?” Mrs. Stevens asks. Mary nods and looks in the direction of the shiny, amazing beautiful thing standing just beyond her reach. She's old enough to know that Santa Claus doesn't exist and that parents buy gifts. Maybe, if she had parents, she'd get gifts for Christmas.

Maybe this year she'll get presents, because Mrs. Stevens seems nicer than her previous foster moms. Maybe she can get the headband. She would really, really like it. (She even mentions during dinner how much she liked it.)

Two days later there is indeed a small package wrapped in shiny paper with a tag saying “Mary Sue” on it. But before she even reaches for it, her heart sinks – it's too small and the package is the wrong shape. Halfheartedly her fingers open the wrapping paper.

 

*

 

_Two._

 

“You don't really like it,” Miles says. When her eyes don't pry away from the streetlights they're passing by, he snorts. It sounds.... wrong; in a way that makes her feel almost embarrassed. “Come on, Skye. Are you seriously telling me you're into all the Christmas crap?”

“It's not crap,” she says, realizing that she's on the defensive. “It's not _all_ crap.”

“Ph-lease,” he rolls his eyes as he keeps on driving. Skye tries not to look at the houses decorated with Christmas lights. “It's capitalistic, consumerist holiday that has the sole purpose of making you feel miserable, so you'd buy stuff. Like you can make yourself or someone else happy with stuff,” he says.

“...yeah,” she answers, deciding that it really didn't make her happy. Not once.

“As I said. You don't really like it. And guess what? You don't need it,” he says.

Skye tries not to look at the lights for the rest of their way.

 

*

 

_Three._

 

She's about to go to her bunk when Simmons pulls her hand.

“You're not leaving now, are you?”

Skye gives her a confused look. By this time she's used to respect her schedule. If she wants to be able to do her training at five am tomorrow, she has to head to bed – and she's about to explain this to Simmons, and add how infuriating Ward is, and how strict, but Simmons just shakes her head.

“It's Christmas eve, Skye, she says smartly, as she's pulling Skye towards the common area of the Bus, and the couch. And there sits her strict, ever frowning SO, holding a glass of something and benevolently looking at her.

“Just this once,” he says. “No training tomorrow.”

“What,” she flops down comfortably next to him, “Did Coulson say he'd throw you out of the plane if you make me train at five am on Christmas morning?

“I might have,” Coulson says as he too appears. Fitz and May follow closely and soon glasses are filled and cheers are exchanged and Skye is telling herself that this is actually nice. It's certainly not some “capitalistic consumerist crap”.

And then Simmons proclaims it's time for gifts and that's when Skye wants to run away because – she doesn't have anything for anyone.

Coulson notices her expression – of course he notices it – and asks her what's wrong.

“I, um,” she starts, looking at the familiar faces and feeling like an idiot. Like a complete failure. “I didn't realize we'd be doing this, so I didn't.... didn't get you guys anything.”

“Oh,” Simmons says. It sounds more like realization than anything else. She glances at Fitz. “Well, that's okay,” she says, looking at Ward now. “There are plenty of gifts for everyone. It's not like anyone will lack a gift,” she says cheerfully, and Ward of all people nods.

“Definitely,” he adds, and with that gifts are exchanged. Packages are placed in her lap and she gets touchscreen gloves, a pair of earrings, ear muffs, a coffee cup.

And a pile of books. She opens the first one and finds a note – _from Grant_.

Later, in the privacy of her bunk, she looks through them. They're some weird fantasy books. Something about Discworld. Something completely crazy and oddly funny and wickedly smart. She gets lost in them.

 

*

 

_Four._

Next year she's punching the boxing bag until her knuckles are sore. She has no idea it's Christmas.

 

*

 

_Five._

Lincoln had told her that he's not very good at buying presets – but even as he's asleep next to her, and contently snoring, she's still trying to wrap her head around the tiny, star shaped lights hanging above her desk.

They're so pretty. They're probably the best gift she ever got (except once, but that, that she doesn't think about.) She has eaten too much (totally worth it) and later they've sneaked into the kitchen on the base and gotten their hands onto chocolate cake. Lincoln has spent entire evening in that sweater she bought him. (They realized he didn't even remove the price tag. He was either in a hurry or really excited. And now she's looking at her very own little stars and the sweater thrown over the chair; she's listening to Lincoln's snoring and she's thinking how it couldn't be better. Next year she's going to organize them a proper Christmas.

 

*

 

_(plus one)_

Next year there is no Christmas. It just passes her by.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
